Pussy pussy pussy . . . coochicoochicoochi . . . pussy want his fish? Nice piece of fish . . . pussy want it? Pussy not eat his fish, pussy get thin and waste away, I think. I imagine this is what will happen, but how can I tell? I think it's better if I don't get involved. I think fish is nice, but then I think that rain is wet so who am I to judge? Ah, you're eating it.

I like it when I see you eat the fish, because in my mind you will waste away if you don't.

Fish come from far away, or so I'm told. Or so I imagine I'm told.

When the men come, or when in my mind the men come in their six black shiny ships do they come in your mind too? What do you see, pussy?

What do you see, pussy? And when I hear their questions, all their many questions, do you hear questions?

Perhaps you just think they're singing songs to you. Perhaps they are singing songs to you and I just think they're asking me questions.

Do you think they came today?

I do.

There's mud on the floor, cigarettes and whisky on my table, fish in your plate and a memory of them in my mind. And look what else they've left me. Crosswords, dictionaries and a calculator.

I think I must be right in thinking they ask me questions.